I’m a Max-Level Taoist Master, and You’re Throwing Me Into a Rules-Based Horror Game?! - Chapter 61

Chapter 61: The Inpatient Ward—A Hotspot for Bizarre Incidents!

“This isn’t a hospital?”

Zhang Yangqing muttered to himself.

At the moment, he didn’t have enough information to make sense of this statement.

He reached out and touched the wall—it was solid, not some kind of illusion.

But two rules seemed related to this situation:

[Rule 10: Those wearing gray clothes are psychiatric patients. Do not engage with what they say. Those wearing white clothes are ordinary patients—try to accommodate their requests.]

[Rule 14: If someone tells you this hospital doesn’t exist, you must believe them. This hospital is real!]

The person who had just spoken to Zhang Yangqing was clearly a psychiatric patient—normal patients wore white.

Moreover, his behavior was strange. An ordinary person would’ve been terrified after Zhang’s intimidation, but this man seemed completely unfazed, even oddly accustomed to it.

Was this what a psychiatric patient was like?
Could their words be trusted?

Many quick-witted challengers had also noticed this gray-clad psychiatric patient.

But his words left them baffled, disrupting their normal thought processes.

Even the renowned detective, Mitarai Saburō, couldn’t make sense of this information.

It’s not like I can just ask the doctors, right?

However, Mitarai did observe one thing:

Once he recovered from his “illness,” the doctors reverted to their usual indifference—as if they could only see patients.

But here was the problem:

The one who had helped him resolve the “barking dog” incident earlier was, if he wasn’t mistaken, this very psychiatric patient.

Normally, such characters in these trials offered some form of assistance. It seemed like the man was trying to warn him about something—yet the rules explicitly stated not to trust him.

This contradiction left Mitarai stumped. For now, he could only take note of it.

Meanwhile, viewers outside the screen were equally confused by this sudden revelation.

• “Did the challengers go to the wrong place? Is this even a hospital?”

• “Something’s off. The director’s behavior from the start was already bizarre. Could this whole thing be a setup?”

• “What if the challengers inhaled some kind of toxic gas and started hallucinating? Maybe they misjudged everything during the initial consultation. What if this entire hospital is just a figment of their imagination?”

• “That actually makes sense.”

• “No way. If the challengers couldn’t tell, fine—but we didn’t inhale anything. Why can’t we see through it either?”

• “You’re all overthinking it. The rules say to ignore what psychiatric patients say, so just disregard it. These trials are full of misleading—or even pointless—information. The challengers just need to survive.”

• “I disagree. Before Zhang the Heavenly Master got involved, many trial secrets remained unsolved even after challengers made it through. There were always hidden areas left unexplored. This clue might actually be hinting at something—it’s just a matter of whether the challengers dig deeper.”

• “Please, no. This trial already has lethal elements, and probably more than one. The Heavenly Master is guaranteed to clear it—it’s not worth risking death just to satisfy curiosity.”

The trial world was steeped in an eerie atmosphere. In the past, most challengers preferred to play it safe, opting to just get through rather than push their luck.

Take the Wax Museum incident, for example. Pyramid Country’s challenger, Rahman, knew the staff lounge held many secrets—but he didn’t dare, nor did he want to investigate further.

While many hoped Zhang Yangqing would uncover the truth, they also wanted him to make it out alive.

Amidst the heated discussions outside, Zhang Yangqing and the other challengers had already arrived at the inpatient ward.

Time was limited. Since the psychiatric patient’s words made no sense, the next step was to gather more intel.

If they could find the apple, they could head to the director’s office—where they might uncover something crucial.

The inpatient ward wasn’t just a single building but an entire complex.

Several structures formed a ring around a central courtyard.

In the courtyard, a handful of patients were performing rehabilitation exercises.

To Zhang Yangqing, they seemed similar to the white-clad patients from the “barking dog” incident—thin and frail.

If there’s a chance, I should ask them.

Many ward doors were marked [FULL], with signs reading:

[DO NOT DISTURB SLEEPING PATIENTS.]

The doors had small glass windows. Peering inside, challengers could see every bed was occupied.

Everything suggested this place was packed with patients.

Yet, upon arriving, the challengers felt something was off.

The courtyard had some activity, but the hallways were eerily empty, with barely anyone around.

If they pressed their ears to the doors, they could hear soft, soothing music playing inside.

Strangely, the music had a calming effect—almost sleep-inducing.

Most patients inside were fast asleep, some in white, others in gray.

But in every room, at least one or two were awake.

This put the challengers in a tough spot.

If they wanted the apple, they’d have to enter a room.

But Rule 6 warned:

When a patient is asleep, do not wake them.

In other words, if a challenger tried talking to an awake patient and accidentally disturbed a sleeping one, the sleeper would attack.

This was the inpatient ward’s hidden danger.

Like everywhere else, breaking the rules meant dire consequences.

These wards were like gaping maws—choose the wrong one, and you might never leave.

After some observation, challengers noticed fruit baskets in certain rooms.

That was their target.

Kangaroo Country’s challenger, Jones, analyzed the situation carefully:

“The rooms where most patients are asleep are probably traps. I need to find one where everyone’s awake—that way, I won’t risk triggering an attack.”

Being cautious, Jones looked for smaller rooms where he could confirm all patients were conscious.

The smallest wards had six beds.

Some challengers weren’t so lucky.

The Windmill Country’ challenger spotted a room where all six patients seemed awake—none were lying down.

He quietly slipped inside, aiming to grab an apple.

But one patient had been sleeping upright, his back to the door.

The challenger had only seen the back of his head and assumed he was awake.

The moment the door creaked open, the standing patient snapped awake—his face twisting into something horrifying.

A bloodcurdling scream echoed through the ward.

Then, the screen cut to black.

Rubber Country’s challenger had it worse.

He entered a six-bed room where everyone was awake.

But then, a white-clad patient demanded he kill the patient across from him in exchange for the apple.

The other patient made a similar demand.

Some requests were even more absurd—like being asked to lull a patient to sleep.

Challengers couldn’t stay in a ward for more than three minutes without consequences.

One anomaly after another arose.

But one thing was clear:

Inpatients could communicate with challengers.

If a challenger completed a patient’s task, the patient would answer questions—acting as informants, just as the rules hinted.

Sakura Country’s star detective, Mitarai Saburō, wasn’t rushing to find the apple.

Instead, he studied the patients in the courtyard and the wards.

“Something’s not right… These people don’t seem sick at all. Why are they even here?”